


saw a shimmering light

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen, M/M, That Seasons 1-2 "Happy" Period, vaugely a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They were raised here, in the lull of the road and the flashes of streetlights, and beds are always too soft after the Impala's hardened leather. Here, Dean can guard against night terrors, drag Sam away from the monsters which stalk the passages of his mind, and it comforts him, the inches between them in the car which can be easily crossed, opposed to the exponential growth of the distance between their beds in a darkened motel room.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	saw a shimmering light

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Hotel California_ by the Eagles, because I'm vaguely cliché.  
>  Cross posted to my tumblr: http://sptimeandrelativedimensionace.tumblr.com/post/124915596134/its-dark-outside-black-as-the-gleaming-skin-of

It’s dark, outside, black as the gleaming skin of the Impala or the deadness of a demon’s eyes, the night pressing in, and their headlights the only glint of light for miles of backcountry road. It’s just how Dean likes it, on nights like these, the road torn up beneath him and left tattered behind, to never be graced with the ghost of their passage again, the music down to a low mumble so only the wailings of a guitar solo can be heard, the only sounds to break the still and chill of the autumn night. The cold spreads down his spine and turns each icy breath to smoke, but it helps keep him awake, like the coffee and adrenaline which jangle through his veins.

Sam is slumped in the passenger seat, roadworn and snatching at what oblivion he can before the nightmares set in. He’s been running on three or four hours for a couple of months, but it’s better if he sleeps in the Impala. Dean can understand that. They were raised here, in the lull of the road and the flashes of streetlights, and beds are always too soft after her hardened leather. Here, he can guard against night terrors, drag Sam away from the monsters which stalk the passages of his mind, and it comforts him, the inches between them in the car which can be easily crossed, opposed to the exponential growth of the distance between their beds in a darkened motel room.

The half-finished beer Sam was drinking is sloshing about in the cup holder, and the half-finished book he was reading is split open across his lap, pouring knowledge out into the front seat for no one to see, because Dean can only look at the road and at Sam, slumped in the passenger seat and most likely getting a stiff neck tomorrow. The sparse light creeps over him, shedding sharp spikes along his face, which fluctuate as they twist and turn, leaving most of him an outline in the dark. Dean picks up the beer, takes a swig, and it burns as it trickles down his throat. It’s cool, like it’s just been taken out of an ice box, but he chases the warmth of Sam’s breath, and pretends he can feel the imprint of his hand on the glass.

Sam shivers in his sleep, shudders crawling through him, and he twists, and he turns, unease written in the lines of his face. Dean doesn’t bother to wake him. It’s guilt and grief which hunt him tonight, and he would only bring them along to haunt him through wakefulness. It’s only worth it to wake Sam from the jagged, juddering teeth of a vision, when some dark nature digs its claws in, dragging him like a marionette through some bloody scene again and again, sending him rushing off to save the victim, and, inevitably, to fail. Some small voice inside of Dean tells him that at least they know some temporary cure, that at least they have a clear goal, that at least they’re together. It could, it whispers, be much worse.

Soon Sam settles again, his forehead pressed against the window, like when they were kids and he didn’t want to miss a damned field of the scenery which flew past outside. The road and the night stretch on ahead, and the aching exhaustion in his bones lessens, and Dean won’t stop driving until Sam wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this could be set at essentially any point during the seasons 1-2 "happy" period of SPN, as I call it, but I like to imagine that this could be what Dean's heaven looks like, when Sam's not there to share it with him, eternally driving and waiting for Sam to wake up.


End file.
